Happy New Year!

 

Come December and my thoughts turn to winter vacations and to Delhi.  People are always startled by our choice of city- why leave Bangalore and go to Delhi in December??

But Delhi is always Delhi - crisp winter mornings, sometimes foggy, sometimes clear with golden winter sunshine that one soaks up whenever one has a chance.

The Delhi of music - where Nayan and I learn to our heart's content and, sometimes get to hear a concert or two.  Delhi brims over with music and dance in December.

The Delhi of Humayun's Tomb, walks in Lodhi gardens, strolls down little lanes - trying to choose uncrowded byways like Sundernagar where we can drop in to buy some Darjeeling tea and fresh spices.

The Delhi of winter feasts - deep red gajar (carrot) ka halwa, crisp pakodas, winter greens, fresh fish and shellfish, roasted sweet potatoes and more.  Never do the naans and kebabs taste better than in December.

December is also a time of reunions - when old friends travel back home and get in touch.  Of sending cards and wishes to all those we know and catching up on their news.  Of savouring sunsets and awaiting sunrises.

The Delhi of ancient monuments and memories- where old compositions like dhrupad spring naturally to mind.  My son sings one such composition (set to raga bhoopali) in his music class and we wonder at the words - tu hi surya, tu hi chandra, tu hi pavana, tu hi agana (addressed to the energy that is everywhere- "you are each of the elements in my life - the sun, the moon, the wind, water and fire").  Its profound beauty and wisdom always moves me.  My son, Nayan, requests the music teacher to join him as he sings and together the notes resound - a beautiful way to usher in a new year.  Nayan asks why we address this energy as 'tu' (a term meant for our equals or those younger than us), why not use aap, which is the respectful or more formal word for 'you'?  The music teacher explains that it is because of familiarity.  The energy or spirit of the world is so close to us that we don't need to use words that keep it far apart from us.  This is a recording of the song that was sung-  Dhrupad

I realise then that we are singing, in a sense, for ourselves.  And my heart fills with a burst of joy at this reminder.  All aspects of nature and life that I love, are, in essence, a part of me.  My new year resolution takes shape at this moment.  I hope that I remain connected to this energy and that I allow it to lead me forward to fulfilling new experiences in the coming year.

 I wish all my readers and their families a wonderful year ahead!

Why Learn Music?

 Every now and then, this question pops up in my mind, “Why do I learn music?”  Sometimes the answers are not compelling enough.

Yes, I enjoy it.  But I can as well sing on my own, the way I always used to do- snatches of songs, lilts of tunes that enter my mind as I move through the day.  That has always been very enjoyable.

Why go through the rigour, attempting to squeeze practice time into an already overloaded schedule – slipping in ‘palta practice’ while the rice is getting burnt and sitting at the tabla while my son is having a bath, knowing that I will be interrupted periodically, with questions like, “Where is my towel?” and “Do I really need to put cream?”

Trying to learn notations doesn’t come naturally to me. Notes, attempted, often fail to reach the appropriate place.  I hate audiences and don’t particularly enjoy singing in groups or for gatherings.  So… why?

Initially, I started music to help my son sustain his music practice.  And it still does so.  Even when he is not practicing, just hearing me play and sing a raga somehow instills it in his mind and I hear him humming it unconsciously.  But now, our music has evolved to a stage where we are not always learning the same thing together.  And he is old enough to begin an independent practice.  Why then?

My next observation was that practicing music in a focused way made me feel better.  Rigorous practice requires a level of concentration that humming or singing snatches of a song to oneself often doesn’t contain.  In particular, my headaches (which had troubled me a lot) seemed to reduce or recede and I felt more relaxed.  This was certainly a good reason to continue, but, my mind argued, “I could probably feel similar effects with a combination of swimming and yoga, which I already know and enjoy.”

So.. back to square one - dealing with annoying yet persistent thoughts which ask me, “Why, at this age, when you have never done it before?  Why, when you are struggling with keeping pace with compositions learnt months ago?  Why, when learning a simple song takes about eternity?  Why, when there is so much pending work piling up?”

This morning, I thought about it again.  This time I came up with a new answer.

I am learning music because it is the perfect way to express certain moods and feelings.  Each note brings forth a certain energy that I feel within and that reverberates in the air around me.  Each classic composition that I like to learn has something new to offer – in terms of creating different effects with notes.  When I make contact with or approach a note in the right way, it resonates with a certain beauty and clarity.  

I relate to the lyrics of classical songs and the sounds of ancient compositions (several of which were composed without words).  Where words are used, I marvel at the way in which they have been fitted to music- particular words that  are set to specific notes that bring out their relevance or feeling in an extraordinary way.  Sometimes I try to imagine what the composers might have felt while creating this music and I also ask myself what I feel about it, and how best I can express this in my music.  It indulges the poet and imaginer in me.

When I sit at the tabla and try out a taal, something stirs within.  An old rhythm, heard but unheard for a long time.  

Music connects me to a different world- more than outside, it seems to take me to a world inside.  A world that connects me more closely to the things I love- the sounds of nature, the feeling of serenity and the joy of creating or expressing something beautiful.

And that is why, I continue to learn music.

 

Life In The Slow Lane

Relaxing near the Bhadra river

 Life has become much richer these days as I have stopped keeping track of the pace of my life and have allowed things flow in a more natural way.

Juggling with subjects that interested me, keeping in mind the research schedule (or lack of it) of a husband who is immersed in science, and the needs of a ten year old son was quite do-able.  However, doing it without worrying about perfect control and timing was hard.  

Until I decided that life was meant to be lived in a different way. No more staying up late pondering over the best way to teach my child Kannada (the second language in school, and a language I am barely familiar with) or what menu I should plan for a diverse set of scientists  (some who were pure vegetarians, thriving on a coconut rich diet and some hearty meat eaters who preferred the pungence of mustard) or how to fit in the fruit and vegetable shopping after my morning yoga schedule without getting tangled in office hour traffic jams.  You get the picture...

Things changed when my husband pointed out that lack of sleep is a major trigger for migraines and even low levels of background stress doesn't help the situation.  I had been planning to let go of my 'targets' and 'to do' lists for a while, but after hearing this I resolutely took the plunge..   I was helped a lot by my teachers, who have appeared in my life over the last several years.   With their patient and kind instructions and with my own inner compass at work, I gradually began to step into the slow lane. 

How did the journey begin? It seems now that all the things I was attempting to learn were interconnected and formed a kind of grid that helped me relax and slow down without losing focus on the present moment. This required cutting off a lot of mental noise and delving within, being unafraid of both failure and perfection, of enjoying the process without wondering where it would lead to and whether it would be two good to last.

"That is not your job," said my music teacher. " Your job is to enjoy the learning".  And so I began.  

I learn music slowly, one note at a time, getting the feel of the sound, the pauses - what to do in the gaps, how to string the notes together - through my voice or the tabla - and create different energies. I learn the importance of going slow without breaking the rhythm (practicing in vilambit taal) before moving on to higher speeds.

Controlling my breathing is a challenge for me. But it is becoming a lot easier because of my pranayama practice. I sit with my yoga teacher and practice breathing for over an hour each time. Different ways of breath control, with the mind focused on each inhalation and exhalation. There is supposed to be a relaxed flow, a balance of incoming and outgoing air, with moments in between of the complete cessation of breathing. It is amazing how good it feels to just breathe and not think of anything else.  My teacher's decades of experience and very precise instructions and demonstration are of immense value.

This training also helps me in my swimming (I have recently begun swimming lessons).  The coach emphasizes the importance of slowness and synchronicity while training - of feeling the stretch, relaxing the joints, and maintaining the rhythm and flow of the movements and breathing. My music and yoga serve me well here. Being in water lifts my mood and clears my mind almost instantly.

Not every task is completed according to the anticipated schedule. Not every box is ticked off on my time table.  But I am sleeping better. I managed to bake chocolate brownies and discuss science with my husband. I managed to read an entire novel in a fortnight and wonder about how to attract stingless bees in our garden, with my son. I even managed to write this blog! 

Sunset in Goa

Sometimes, I like to immerse myself in my garden or in a beautiful snippet of music or dance, or read a few lines from a book, just to celebrate the beauty of life around me.  Not for long (I am still learning!), but each moment adds up and the journey is fun.  

I am attaching a link to a short Odissi dance recording that I think mirrors my feelings.  It is a recording of Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra - who spent his entire life dancing and composing dance movements because that is all he wished to do.

Pallavi by Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra

Life's Rhythm - Lessons From Music

 Sitting in my son's tabla classes, I am slowly hearing the world in a different way.  The tabla is a relatively young entrant to Indian classical music and is an amazingly versatile instrument of percussion and harmony.  So much so that when I hear everyday sounds now, I try and imagine how they might be recreated in tabla language (a series of 'bols').  The rustling of leaves in my garden reminds me of the bayan (the left, bass drum) and our bedroom fan creaks out a perfect taal (rhythm cycle) that once irritated me but now fascinates me.

It is spring and the air is full of bird song.  This is my favourite form of music, but now I catch myself counting the beats.  Is it the same number of beats in each kite call?  What is the beat cycle of the bulbuls?  Am I taking this a bit too far??  Even my tapping on the keyboard distracts me occasionally from my writing.

I know very little about the tabla, less so about percussion, but a few weeks ago, just by chance, I sat down and began watching a video of Ustad Zakir Hussain, one of the most acclaimed contemporary tabla players.  I had a headache and time was moving slowly, but once I was drawn into Zakir's music, the headache and all else were blissfully forgotten for a while.  Some of these recordings left a mark on my mind, for there was a haunting depth in what Zakir Hussain was trying to convey, both through his music and his words.  Listening to him talking about the tabla was fascinating, and about life, equally so.

An element that Zakir lays great emphasis on is the art of listening.  Although tabla has come into its own as a solo instrument, the primary task of a tabla player remains that of an accompanist to another instrument that drives the musical composition (raga).  The tabla player needs to follow the lead of the main instrument, and enjoy complementing it, and if the musician invites the tabla player to a musical conversation (a 'jugalbandi'), then the tabla player adds his own musical comments to the composition.  If he is not invited, he stays in the background, without forcing himself upon the musician or the audience.  In trying to display his own dexterity over the instrument, a tabla player might distract his musical partner from his plans for the composition that is unfolding (Indian classical music, especially that played on stage, is often  highly improvised depending upon the mood, the musicians, the audience etc.).

Zakir gave the example of his experiences during the first few concerts with Pandit Ravi Shankar, the renowned sitar player.  He thought he had played very well in those concerts, but Ravi Shankar never said a word at the end of each concert.  Then, before the third concert, Zakir Hussain mustered up the courage to ask Ravi Shankar if his playing had been satisfactory.  Initially Ravi Shankar just nodded.  Then, he sat back and asked, "Zakir, do you remember what raga I played in each of the concerts?"  And Zakir Hussain thought hard but he couldn't recall what music had been played.

Ravi Shankar continued, "Did you look at me even once during the concert?  Did we get a chance to know each other?"

The answer was "No".  Zakir (with incredible honesty) recollected that he was so busy trying to showcase his skill on the tabla that he forgot that he was part of a team and that it is not two disjointed monologues but a conversation that is what gives the special energy to a partnership.

I thought this was an important lesson for life as well.  The importance of being a good listener, and of being there for another person- sometimes silently, and when required, through your voice or action.  Of wholeheartedly and joyfully deciding to take a course that you might not have chosen if you had only yourself to think about.

I also liked Zakir’s description of his own reactions during the initial concerts with Ravi Shankar.  Ravi Shankar had played with Zakir Hussain’s father, Ustad Allah Rakha innumerable times, and Zakir was on the stage with his father during many of those concerts.  

Zakir went for his first concert with Ravi Shankar, brimming with confidence.  He knew exactly what he would play when Ravi Shankar hit those particular notes in specific ragas.  But when the concert began, Zakir felt it was a complete disaster - Ravi Shankar did not play as Zakir expected him to, and Zakir had no idea how to proceed.  It was frightening.  Later, Ravi Shankar told him something like, “Don’t expect me to play with you the way I used to play with your father.  This is a new relationship and a we have to chart a new path together.”

Describing this, Zakir said (I quote as best as I can, from a YouTube recording of his) - “How do I prepare?  You’ve learnt so much, got all… (the information).  Get on the stage, put it away.  Put all the information away.  But (there is) hesitancy.  Inner laya (rhythm) is not strong.  How will I ..?  That’s okay. That’s alright.  It’s alright to look silly.  It’s okay to fail.  It’s fine to trip and fall flat on your face in front of the audience.  All it means is that you know what not to do next.  It’s trial and error.  

At some point in your life as musicians, you will have to decide, “Do I take the leap of faith?  Do I jump off this hill without knowing how far the water is and how deep it is?”  You have to do that.  That means to stop the memorization.  And to understand that it’s okay to fail.  And when you get to that point, suddenly you will notice that nothing threatens you.  Nothing makes you afraid.  That there’s no fear.  And when that happens, some door or window would open, which would allow you to experience the music in a light that shines brighter than anything else in the world…”

Deep lessons, that encompass much more than music.

Also interesting was Zakir’s recollection of two parallel incidents while working with famous musicians – the renowned guitarists George Harrison and John McLaughlin.  At one moment, Zakir had dreams of being a drummer, perhaps in a rock band.  It appeared much more glamorous than being a table playing accompanist.  When he worked with George Harrison, Zakir once asked George why he didn’t play the sitar (which he had learnt from Ravi Shankar) on stage and George replied, “I don’t want to insult my teacher by playing bad sitar in a performance.  I have taken my learning from the sitar and applied it to my own instrument, which is the guitar, and which I am good at.  Similarly, there are a hundred drummers out there, all equally good, and I would have called any one of them if I needed a drummer.  I have called you because you have something they don’t have.  Why do you want to become the hundred and first when you can be unique?”

John McLaughlin was to express the same thought later, when Zakir asked him why he didn’t play the veena, after having learnt it from veena maestro S. Ramanathan.  “The guitar is my voice.”  You can hear the veena in his guitar but he cannot use the veena the way a master veena player can and so he chooses not to play it.

Zakir said this was a turning point in his thought process.  He was living in the U.S. at this time and being exposed to music he had never heard before, including amazing kinds of percussion from all over the world.  He realised that the tabla was an instrument that could allow expression of many of these sounds that had not been tried before.  At one moment, he said that he felt he had been imposing his own training and desire to play on the tabla.  But the tabla has its own voice and wants to express itself in many ways; we just have to listen and to let that expression emerge.

Sometimes it takes half a lifetime to get to know our instruments.  But we still have another half to express ourselves, and to allow something beyond to reveal itself through us.  It’s a completely new journey and a greatly satisfying one, when we trust and allow ourselves to move along these paths, however unfamiliar they may seem.  

I am adding, at the end, a link to one of my favourite snippets from a concert by the amazing violinist N. Rajam and Zakir Hussain.  It is not a high quality recording but it always brings a smile to my face and a warmth in my heart, which is what music is all about, for me.  

N. Rajam Zakir Hussain concert

The Elements In My Life

This morning, suddenly, sounds of the Shanti Paath (The Prayer Of Peace) flowed into my mind.  It is a prayer that I heard first when I was eight, and some essence of it has always remained with me.  "Peace to the sky and the ethereal space.  Peace to the earth.  Peace to the water.  Peace to the herbs and all that grows on the earth.  Peace to the Universe.."  And so on.

I began thinking of how I relate to the elements around me, beginning with the silent space that sometimes envelopes me (as I write this, my environment is filled with loud, grating construction sounds, but you know what I mean).  There is a space and a silence to which we can all retreat, even (and specially) in the midst of chaos and cacophony.

The silence is best interspersed with music.  The music I like most is the song of the birds and the chirp and hum of nocturnal insects and animals as they go about their lives, unknown to us.  Water, as it moves - humming, gushing, swishing and gurgling to itself.  And the breeze at night - I tell my son that it is Byngoma and Byangomi (the legendary, wise, human faced birds of Bengali fairy tales) coming to whisper their stories to us (if we will only listen).

There are many other forms of natural elements that I love-

The vastness and limitlessness of the sky that always amazes me and gives me a feeling of unfettered freedom.  My son looks up and points out the animals and birds that he sees in cloud form and imagines jumping from cloud to cloud.  I am just amazed at how different the sky looks at each moment and how empty yet full it is.

My son and I envy the effortless soaring of the birds and try to imagine the feeling of flight.  We rush out as evening falls to catch a glimpse of the orange-pink-gold streaks of fading sunlight and to watch the soundless flight of bats and the eventual emerging of the moon.

I relate to the earth in the form of my garden and all the plants that I can nurture, and many that step into my space uncalled- hardy weeds, of which dandelions are my favourite.  I love wood in many forms, but most of all in the form of ancient trees - filled with the wisdom of things beyond my world.  I listen to the creaking and rustling sounds they make when the wind blows through them, and try to imagine what they might be saying.

Though I am often wary of climbing, I am filled with awe at the sight of rocks and other natural earth forms - shapes melded and cooled to form irreproducible structures.  They emanate a certain resilience and stoic strength that seems oblivious to tremors that may occur beneath and around.  

I relate to water in many ways, but most of all when I am swimming!  Its immense, buoyant energy always beckons me and I like to surrender myself to its drift and flow along.  

I relate to fire mostly in my kitchen.  Steaming - simple and flavourful.  Sizzling - in seasoned pans with dramatic sounds.  Simmering - slow, delicate and aromatic.  Baking - soft, buttery batter set in the warmth of the oven to rise of its own accord.  Cooking fills my days with chemistry, craft and contentment.

I also love log fires, though there have only been a few occasions when I could sit next to one.  I still recall the glowering logs and the occasional shower of sparks they would send out; the comforting warmth that is of a very special nature, different from what modern heaters can provide.

I am delighted when I get unexpected guests in my garden - a slow hopping toad, perfectly camouflaged chameleons, a bunch of butterflies, a hornbill (yes! once!), a baby eagle learning to fly, a barn owl oblivious to the fact that we had no barn.  And I am thankful for my usual visitors, especially the bulbuls who sing so sweetly and effortlessly, the kites who are trusting enough to stop for a drink of water on my terrace, the hummingbirds, content with tiny water droplets that fall on my ginger lilies and feathers that seem to fall from the sky.

For these, and other gifts of the natural world, I am truly thankful.

Our Musical Journey

 On this occasion of Teacher's Day, I sit and recall some of the life changing teachers I have encountered, notably my Yoga teacher and my Music teacher.  In this blog, I will focus upon the musical journey that my son (Nayan) and I embarked upon that began a little over two years ago.

I never planned to learn music.  I had always hoped I might as a child, but there was no opportunity.  I was quite sure, however, that if my son showed the slightest inclination towards music, I would find a teacher to help him.  

When Nayan was about five years old, he attended an ‘Introduction To Music’ course conducted by the Bangalore School of Music, that taught children basic elements of Western classical music. He enjoyed the music immensely, but didn't like being part of a large group with lots of sound and movement that distracted him from the music.  I realised that group classes were not the way for him and a change would be required.

A few months before the course ended, Covid struck and everything was shut down. The music school had no plans of restarting anytime soon, and at this stage, my husband and I felt it would be nice if our son could be exposed to the richness and diversity of Indian music.  Thus began our search for a suitable teacher.

I searched for a couple of months, asking a lot of friends and calling several musicians and music schools, but nothing suitable worked out.

Then, unexpectedly, once when I called my sister-in-law, just to check how she was doing, at the end of the call, she said (as sometimes people say), "What else is happening?"  

What else?  In quarantine times, there was hardly any news.  So I said, "Nothing much.  I have been trying to find a music teacher for Nayan with little success so far."

"Let me send you some numbers," she said.  "Is piano and singing happy songs good for you?"  

I said, "Not really”.  It was not at all what I was looking for.  “I am searching for an Indian music teacher who can teach children.  Nayan is about six and a half now." 

"I have an old number," she said.  "I don't know if it still works.  Try it.”

I called the number.  Someone answered.  They said they would call back the next day.  I hung up with little hope.

The next day, the phone did ring.  It was the music teacher.  He was based in Delhi.  Online classes would not be a problem, but could he see my son first?  A ray of hope went through me.  He was the first teacher who had wanted to meet my son.   

We had our first video call.  My son was busy watching cartoons at the time and I didn't know if I could even get him to take the call.  But when he heard it was a music teacher, he jumped up and answered the call.  

"Soo- do you want to learn music?" the teacher asked.  "Ye-es!" yelled Nayan.  The teacher nodded, "Yes, I can make out from your face.  I think this will be a good thing.  So, when do you want to start?"  And that was that.  I tried to explain that I didn't want any pressure, just a relaxed class where Nayan could enjoy learning, but words were hard to come by, and I finally decided to let go and see how things emerged.

When the classes began, they flowed in a torrent and not the gentle drizzle I had expected.  At the end of the first class, Nayan had a list of songs that he was to watch online.  Before the class ended, the teacher asked me to sing.  Sing?  I was taken aback.  Surely it had been made clear the class was for my son, not for me?  

"You must be knowing the basic notes," he said.  “Everyone knows them.”  

"No," I replied.  I most certainly did not know the basic notes and I had no intention of singing in front of anyone.

"I am asking," he explained, "because it will help your son tremendously if you can support with him with some singing and if there is music in your house.  So please try."

Put like that, it was churlish to refuse.  I heard him singing.  I tried to imitate the sounds, feeling like a baby bird chirping for the first time.  "That's fine," he said, "Now your homework is..."

Thus began my music class, unintended, unasked for, but a gift for my son and more than ever, for me.  It has made a difference to the continuity of Nayan's music.  It has made a difference to my life.

We have barely begun but we seem to have been introduced to so much, so simply.  Soumitra Paul (aka Shomitro Sir) has a gift for teaching, especially children.  It is done rigorously but so gently and joyfully that children don't know how much they are absorbing.  

He is trained in Hindustani classical music- singing and the tabla (a percussion instrument).  Both areas meld together beautifully when he explains notes and rhythms, the teaching is highly personalised and spontaneous.  He is a professional table player and has played with many renowned musicians.  But teaching is his first choice.  

Each class brings something new and unexpected - new insights into previous learning combined with the introduction of a new raga or bol or song.  In fact, they are introduced at so rapid a pace sometimes that I struggle to keep up.  "Two hours, ten minutes of practice every day, Madam", he reminds me.  In my chaotic life strewn with unexpected events everyday, two hours (and ten minutes) are hard to come by.  I struggle and cannot manage but I am learning to stay relaxed even if I am not ready for the next class.  I sing for myself and am learning to enjoy every moment of it, steering away from judgement and doubt.

For Nayan, the routine is completely different.  "Fifteen minutes of whatever you want to play (or sing) is enough."  Nayan has become enthusiastic about the tabla.  "I didn't know I had a gift for the tabla.  But it's so simple and so enjoyable,"- he says with frankness and a disarming naïveté.  

We didn't know either that he had a gift for any form of music, we just sensed that he responded well to it, like so many children do.  We often wonder how our music teacher recognised Nayan’s gift so early on.  According to him, it was glaringly obvious.  But it was not obvious to anyone else.

Whenever we are in Delhi, Shomitro Sir makes it a point to come home every day to teach us music in person.  The classes extend forever, time is forgotten, or just held in abeyance for a while…. It’s a wonderful experience.

Teaching a child to sit and focus on music for close to an hour at a stretch is not easy (especially online).  But, music interspersed with conversation - not just talking to the child, but listening to him, makes all the difference.

"So, are you tired today?  How was school?" Shomitro Sir begins.

“I missed my football game because it was raining,” says Nayan, a bit put out. 

"Maybe we can play a football tukda on the tabla today.  Would you like to hear it?"  Nayan nods.  He is curious.  Soumitra Sir demostrates.  

"See, it is a spherical composition.  Did you understand?"  Nayan gives a thumbs up.  It is perfectly clear to him.  

"Did your mother understand?"  

“No”.  No I definitely did not understand how a composition can be spherical but it is perfectly clear to both of them.  In fact they have gone so far ahead musically that sometimes I can only sit back and marvel.  

"Would you like to play it?"  Nayan begins playing immediately, each note sharp and clear on the tabla as it is in his mind.  They continue in this manner, all fatigue forgotten.  

"Next time we will do a hockey tukda," announces Shomitro Sir.  

"Is there really such a thing as a hockey tukda?" I ask curiously.  

"Now there is," he grins.

"I have composed a tukda also," pipes up Nayan.  

"Let's hear it," says Shomitro Sir.  And effortlessly, the class has shifted from understanding and practicing to composing.  A subtle but noticeable shift.  Nayan's energy and excitement are high now.  The compositions are not random notes or lines picked up from different sources.  They are unique creations that follow the rigour and pattern of the rules of classical Indian music.

Nayan's composition to a beat of four

I am also encouraged to compose.  I don’t find it that simple or spontaneous.  However, in the midst of my practice sometimes, when my mind is still and receptive, a series of notes make themselves known.  It’s a very different experience for me, a bit like writing using notes instead of words.

We also learn folk songs and several songs composed by Rabindranath Tagore because of the haunting lyrics and melodies.  A song about inner longing on seeing the beauty of nature, a song about clouds shifting on a holiday and what the children could do amongst the fields, lakes and forests on such a day.  Ekla chalo re - if no one heeds your call, then walk alone- written by Tagore for Mahatma Gandhi during the freedom struggle.  Whimsical songs - admonishing a sulky cockatoo, songs to bulbuls and other birds (we love to sing this when bulbuls perch outside our window).  Miscellaneous tunes that we are attracted to.  “Okay,” says  Shomitro Sir, “We will learn them all.”

It is the ‘we’ instead of the ‘you’ that makes all the difference.  We are moving along this path together.  I find myself searching for songs I want to learn instead of waiting for instruction.  In this way I have heard an enormous range of music (at the cost of my two hours ten minutes of practice).  It has helped me pay attention to notes and lyrics.  We deconstruct each song, play it on the harmonium and then find our own way to sing it.

Shomitro Sir explains how he approaches each song.  “It’s not just about getting the right notes.  You must put your own inner feelings into it.  It's about sending a vibration,”  he says.  

Song for Nayan- link

Thus, I am introduced to the concept of the energy of music - something I had noticed but not really dwelt upon.  “Call upon each note as you would a friend.”  I realized that each note indeed had its own energy.  Rounding off notes, singing in between notes and interspersing music with moments of silence created different effects.  As I practiced this with some focus, I could sense the amazingly varied energy of music. It could calm me down and ease a lot of troubles away.  It could make my heart race with anticipation.  Sometimes it triggered my imagination.  It often helped me sleep better and if I awoke in the middle of the night, I would find notes playing on in my head, lulling me back to sleep.

Song for Sujata - link

In this manner, Nayan and I have embarked upon our musical journey.  It takes us to unknown places along unchartered terrain, but is always enjoyable.

Ginger Biscuits and Allspice Tea

 Today we are making allspice tea, with leaves from our garden.  Nayan has baked ginger biscuits, just perfect to dip into the tea, especially on a rainy day like today.  

We have just returned from a walk – an unplanned ramble on a rainy day.  There was no one else around – just us and trees bursting with birds – barbettes, humming birds, bulbuls and all kinds of tiny ones whose names we did not know, hopping from branch to branch, shaking themselves dry and singing away, unconcerned about us or the rain or anything else around them.  

Nayan and I sang the unforgettable children’s Bengali song “Bulbul pakhi moyna tiye” as the bulbul, moyna and tiye flew above and around us.  

Nayan took some pictures – the birds were too fast for him but the rain drenched plants stood patiently, waiting to be photographed.

It was like being in a treasure hunt.  We chose a path, looked around for the place that seemed to beckon us towards happy adventure, and then waited for wondrous things to reveal themselves.

“We can choose one of many paths,” I told Nayan.  “Each one is right for that moment.  And going along the path is the exciting bit because it can lead you to many treasures if you use your inner compass as a guide (Nayan has recently dismantled an old clock to try and convert it into a compass so he knows all about these things).  That warm, happy feeling means you are going in the right direction and good things will show up if you are ready for them.  The not so happy feeling means you need to change your direction a bit.  Even if you can’t see exactly where you are going, but if you like the way the flowers smell or the birdsong you hear or just the thought of what might lie beyond that little hill that is inviting you to climb it- that’s a path worth exploring.”

Today our path led us to the feel of the wind, the touch of the rain, the sound of the birds and then back to our garden where we encountered the allspice tree.

“How tall it has grown!  Not a berry in sight but so many leaves.  I wonder if we can use them for tea...”

“Yes, let’s!” said Nayan the intrepid adventurer.

But I needed to check with Google first.  Certainly, allspice leaves were used extensively in Caribbean cooking.  And they seemed to have all kinds of beneficial properties.

So, we made ourselves the perfect Sunday morning breakfast – poha (light, beaten rice) flavoured with curry leaves from our garden and fresh lemon juice from our lemon tree, allspice leaf tea and homemade ginger biscuits.  The tea was so incredibly delicious, I wondered why we had never made it earlier.  The tree has been standing outside, patiently, all these years, we just had to find our way to it.

Thirty Years Ago

Thirty years ago, on this day, I was rushing out of my room to get to a Halloween party.  Just as I had locked my door, the phone began to ring.  The sound was shrill and persistent, so I went inside and took the call.  It was Raghavan, proposing to me.  (I don't think the word 'marry' was ever mentioned, but in those few halting sentences, I understood that it was a proposal).  He was in India and I was in the U.S. at the time, and it meant a sudden change of lifestyle, which didn't really worry me.  

It was a time of "I don't have time to deal with my hair, another day is beckoning."  A time when one didn't really think too much ahead.  Leaving a bustling campus not far from New York where I was a student, to settle into a quiet campus in a relatively conservative part of Bangalore, where I would set up house with the person I wanted to spend my life with, and do... what else?  I didn't know but it was a dream come true.

And so it was that the following year found me in Bangalore, looking at a tiny two room apartment meant for postdocs (but campus accommodation was scarce so we were lucky).  I arrived with nine bags in tow.  "No space!  Keep two and send the rest back to Delhi," said Raghavan.  So my possessions were unpacked gradually over time.  The most important first - books, music, herbs and my favourite crockery.  A few clothes and shoes.  Everything else could wait.

We had a house with a stone wall on which hung our first rug - a wedding gift from a master weaver that was filled with colours of the sea.  Raghavan felt it was too beautiful to spread on the floor and on the wall it has remained ever since, in each of our houses.  A wall to wall bookshelf and a small space for the music and crafts that we collected.  Stone slabs served as seats and tables.  There was no space for a dining table and other luxuries.

The kitchen was sparsely equipped.  Raghavan had bought a microwave and an ancient toaster.  The shelves initially contained packets of pea soup and cashew nuts.  The first dinner I cooked required a walk to the campus outskirts, to search for a small shop selling any kind of food.  Sure enough, there was a tiny shop just outside, catering to the needs of a traffic intersection - displaying eggs in a rack, sweets and glucose biscuits in glass jars and a bunch of bananas that dangled overhead.  I chose the eggs and went home to cook cashewnut omlets and to microwave the pea soup.  That was our first and most memorable home cooked meal.

We had a little patch of garden where marigolds planted themselves each year.  A small hardy custard apple tree and a papaya tree which yielded delicious yellow papayas (these are now hard to find, they have all been replaced by their hybrid orange-red cousins).  I remember my first few spirited arguments with the Bengali neighbours who lived above us.  The lady would keep plucking unripe papayas from our tree without telling me.  While I claimed ownership to the tree because it grew in my garden, she claimed ownership to the papayas because they appeared at the level of her house!  A dispute that was mercifully resolved a few months later, when they moved out.

I remember learning to rat proof my house.  There was a large group of wily rodents of varying sizes and shapes that would sneak through gaps in doors at the slightest chance.  Raghavan's hockey skills proved very handy in chasing them out and we gradually learnt to seal every possible crack in our house.

Raghavan's first birthday celebration was to be a surprise party.  It was indeed a surprise filled evening, more for me perhaps than for anyone else.  It was to be barbecue dinner.  The friends who were to bring the barbecue set called at the last minute to say they could not come.  There was a power cut that entire day, which meant no mixie - so all marinades were hand pounded.  Large pans of drinking water were furtively boiled and cooled.  I did not possess an oven so I made gulab jamuns from Amul full cream milk powder (which has since vanished from the shelves- it's all toned milk now so I am unable to use that splendid hand me down  recipe from my mother any more).  I fried the minced meat that had been kept to make seekh kebabs- a kebab by any other name name tastes almost as good..

"No more surprise parties, " I decided at the end of the day.  It had been a nice celebration but I needed more hands to help out at parties at home in the future.

What I loved most about the campus were the magnificent trees.  They really made me feel connected to an ancient and natural spirit.  I still love seeing them and reaching out to them each day.  

Summer brought tamarind, and in those days when the campus was devoid of stray dogs, homeless monkeys, security guards and resident construction labour, I was free to cycle down the little lanes, gathering tamarind pods that had fallen on the ground, to make into a delicious tangy pickle.

I remember our first Diwali, when my father in law made a special trip from Delhi to see us.  It was filled with light and happiness.  We lit a huge number of fireworks on our terrace and ate home made sweets, then drove him to the little airport in Indiranagar (which was rather a peaceful drive in those days).

When I look back, I get a warm, contented feeling thinking of all those moments.  Not knowing where I was headed and not worrying about it, life moved on exactly as unpredictably as it had begun for me on that happy Halloween day, thirty years ago  Not knowing where life was taking me but knowing it would be a good journey, and that was all that mattered.

Seeing What Is

 On Tuesday morning, it was raining cats and dogs.  "Why not candies?" asked my son Nayan.  

"Candies would be like little rocks pelting on our head," I said, "And I'm not sure if we could eat them.."

"Of course, we could," said Nayan who actually doesn't eat much candy in real life.

"It might rain frogs," said Renee Aunty, who knows all about these things.  "It does, sometimes, you know."

"It's raining rhinos and leopards in Arunachal Pradesh," said Ram Uncle who likes a bit of a jaunt now and then.  "All I have been seeing are car wipers."

"On my farm in Maharashtra, it usually rains elephants and hippopotamuses," said Hasmukh Uncle with a smile.  Nayan was worried that the farm animals might get squashed but I said they would probably be wise enough to keep away from the rain.

But after Nayan had sent the video of the rivulet flowing past his bus stop to all his friends, everyone agreed that this was an unusually torrential downpour.

"We used to float paper boats in the water," sad Mona Bua from Kolkata, "But that isn't a good idea because it could clog the drains."

"There are no drains near my bus stop," declared Nayan.  "The next time it rains, I'm going to float a boat."

"We could make a banana leaf boat," said Raghavan aka Appa.  "Did you know that leaf boats are decorated and floated on the river, on Kartik Purnima (the full moon day in the Indian month of Kartik)?  This happens during a festival called Boita Bandana celebrated in Odisha to mark the day when merchants would set sail from the coast of Odisha to Southeast Asia and Sri Lanka for trade. Now it's a festival to mark the ancestral maritime journeys.  There is also a similar festival in Thailand called Loy Krathong."  

No, we did not know any of this (actually neither did he, but a few minutes on the Internet is all it takes).

"Actually,"continued Appa, "Kartik Purnima will be coming up soon, it usually occurs in November.  And look - here's a video showing how to make a banana leaf boat without any pins or staples."

Wow!  Appa sure knows how to ferret out important information.

So we agreed to try and make a banana leaf boat to set sail in the next rivulet we found.

But before we could find a banana leaf, the rain began again.

On Thursday morning, it pitter pattered without warning.  There was no time to find a banana leaf or watch the video but Appa did make a perfect paper boat while the rest of us were rushing to get ready.  I carried the boat carefully for Nayan but as we reached the bus stop, the rain tapered off.  No rivulet!  Not even a reasonable sized puddle.

Nayan was very upset.  Tears trickled down his face.  

I did not take it too seriously.  "Look Nayan," I said, "Look at what all we have around- it's a beautiful day - crisp and clear, the sun has risen, the trees are all saying "Good morning' to you.  We have time for a little walk.  Look at what is, and not at what is not, or you will never be happy."

But he couldn't be consoled or diverted.  So I just let him stand there with tears running down, until the bus arrived.  He wiped his tears off as he sat in the bus and he did not see me wave goodbye.

"Why does this child have to feel so intensely?" I asked Raghavan. 

"Maybe I shouldn't have made the boat.  I did tell him that there would probably not be enough water and we could float it later at home, but I didn't think he would take it so much to heart.  Anyway, it's a learning experience for us, and for him too."

"I told him," I said, "not to miss out on what is by dwelling on what is not, but he wouldn't listen."

"It's okay," said Raghavan, "He will soon get over it."

As I relaxed and thought about it, I realised that it was I who needed to see things as they were.  Yes, it was a beautiful day for me, and not so at that moment for my little son, whose heart was aching because he had imagined and dreamt and so looked forward to floating a boat. ("Pray to the gods for rain," he had told me earnestly).  

But in wondering why Nayan was so upset, I had stopped seeing him for what he is - a boy who is sensitive about things, and there are many things each day that touch his heart.  When I freed myself of judgement, I appreciated the fact that Nayan could feel strongly about things that were important to him, and he could express his feelings without worrying about how others perceived him.  I also know how buoyant he is - that once he is back from school, he will create a giant artificial puddle to float that boat, with much glee and splish-splashing.  And later, Raghavan will watch that video and make that banana leaf boat for a rainy day.  My job will just be to procure that banana leaf from our neighbour's garden (and pray to the God of Rain for a torrent even though our walls are dripping with water). I am gradually learning to see.

Music Enters My Life

 It has been about a year since I began my music lessons.  It is very different learning experience compared to those when I was younger.  The path seems considerably steeper, much more strewn with boulders..  Perhaps this is why I appreciate the opportunity to be able to learn more than ever.

I often feel I need to thank life - and my music teacher (Soumitro Sir as he is called) for adding this unexpected new dimension to my life, and my home.  

It began, as many things do nowadays, with my son Nayan who does have a gift for music and a tendency to disregard his gifts.  I searched hard for a music teacher for him, and am glad I finally found the perfect one for Nayan: someone who could introduce him to music gradually, systematically and playfully.  My son often doesn't realise how much he is learning or how gently he is being prodded to continue with his practice when all he wants to do is to veg out.

I began to learn a little later (at the suggestion of the teacher) to support Nayan's music and help him at home.  Thus Hindustani music found its way into our house.  

We had always heard all kinds of music but now we were actually singing (and playing the tanpura and harmonium), and it had a different kind of energy.  Nayan and I practiced singing; my husband periodically searched for similar kinds of music to what we were learning, and other songs that he thought we might like to learn.

For Nayan, singing is almost effortless.  He glides in and out of notes, with minimal practice and complete confidence.

I am completely the opposite.  I plod along, repeating each step innumerable times and I always feel I have a long way to go before I can sing something properly.  Soumitro Sir understands.  He just sits quietly, waiting for me to gather my confidence before I embark.  It is an online class, so he offers to switch off his video so I don't see him there but I say that closing my eyes is an easier option.  Once the momentum builds up and I stop thinking about how I sound, notes flow in a happy way.  

Our classes are oft interrupted as both of us are working from home.  "Ek minute, Madam, aap gate rehiye, main abhi aa raha hoon" ("One minute Madam, please keep singing, I am coming") or "Soumitro Sir, the gas person is here with a cylinder refill," or "The washing machine repair man has finally come.  I will just be back."  Or "I could not practice today.  We had a dinner for ten people and I was cooking."   

Our classes are filled with discussions of life, philosophy, family anecdotes and even food.  Soumitro Sir knows I relate well to food (as he does), so I often hear, "Add a little sweetness Madam, not too much or it will get sickening, just a tiny bit.." Or, "When you make prawn curry, you need to mix the ingredients in the perfect proportions for the right taste.  Music is like that.  It's not just getting each note right, it is the mix of sound and feeling."  He emphasises bringing softness and the right kind of emotion to each composition, which is something I  would love to achieve.  It's like breaking a sheet of ice of uncertainty and hesitation and allowing the warm, spontaneous feelings to burst through.  (I am trying.)

Our classes are varied, keeping in mind a broad theme - streams of notes learnt in different ways that somehow fit into a greater whole that was not obvious to me at the outset.  Often improvised depending on the mood (after months of practicing classical ragas, I have suddenly embarked upon learning a Bengali folk song written by Tagore.  Soumitro Sir sang it for Nayan and the song resonated so much within me that I thought I would look into it, and there's no turning back now).

No turning back.  For months I was full of doubts about my ability to learn singing.  To be able to play the harmonium (and now, my son wants a tabla for his practice, there's no knowing where this journey is taking us).  Now, I know there's no turning back.  I would like to continue and I hope one day to sing freely, with all my heart.  I hope, someday, to lend a voice to all those notes which float in my mind.  Like writing, the words (or notes) seem to have a life of their own- and keeping them true to form while bringing them to paper (or in the air) to be read (or heard) is the main challenge.

When I write, there is no one looking over my shoulder, but when I sing, I am aware that everyone around can hear me.  That is a big difference, and that is what makes me hesitate as I sing.  But then, I remember Soumitro Sir's questions from an early class.

"When you are singing in the class or at home, who are you singing for?"  My invariable answer would be, "I am singing for myself."

"And when you are facing an audience who  has come especially to listen to you, who are you singing for?"

I falter.  The prospect of facing an audience is unnerving.  I say with some hesitation, "For the people who have come?"

"No!  You are singing for yourself.  You are always singing for yourself."

It is something I never forget.  I sing because it opens up something vast and wonderful within me.  I sing because I am filled with joy when I approach the right notes.  I sing to air melodies that linger in my mind.  I sing in deference to extraordinary composers, to the grace of classical music and the spontaneity of folk music.  I sing in memory of all the love and beauty of Nature and of Life itself.  I sing because I want to.

The Way Back To Happiness

 I recently read an article on Ricardo Munoz ‘s (former chief psychologist at San Francisco General Hospital and now distinguished professor of psychology at Pal Alto University) mission to prevent depression.  He began in the nineteen eighties when very little was known about this subject and depression was largely thought to be unpreventable.  

Munoz used simple techniques based on the premise that if people resumed pleasurable activities even though they didn’t feel like doing them, they felt better and were able to do more activities.  This significantly helped to cure people suffering from depression and led to Munoz wondering if it could actually prevent the onset of depression.  Years of work with a large number of patients (many from a low-income group, who didn’t speak any English) proved that it could.

Munoz then utilized the internet to reach out to many more people in different ways- he ran a very effective smoking cessation programme in the nineties and later founded a company to provide self help mental health information that he admits “won’t work for everybody, but nothing does.”  It has helped a large enough number of people though, especially during the pandemic when the number of U.S. adults who had symptoms of a depressive disorder or anxiety disorder rose from 11% to 40%.

Munoz recommends simple methods like calling a friend, getting enough sleep, being with nature, listening to music or having a special event to look forward to, to prevent people from spiralling down into anxiety or depression.

This simple commonsense approach that has apparently worked wonders struck a chord in me.  I had never given much thought to how troubling these problems can be until recently.  My study of Ayurveda had just informed me that health is the state of equilibrium between the mind, body and spirit.  I had read all about what happens when this equilibrium is shifted but never thought to apply it to myself.

I have been suffering from migraines for many years and sought various forms of remedies for these.  Nothing seemed to work very well, the triggers (largely hormonal) were too strong and were getting more frequent over time.  So last July I visited a few doctors.  One of them recommended a medicine called Sibelium that was very commonly taken to prevent the onset of migraines.  When I asked about side effects, he said, “Oh it will make you a bit sleepy and hungry.  But you are thin and can afford to eat.. Ha! Ha!”  It was said lightheartedly.  And so, in the same spirit it was that I began this medicine.

The first day that I began the medicine, everything seemed strange.  I could hardly keep awake and I was continuously eating whatever I could find.  This seemed dreadful.  I should have stopped right there.  Instead, I told the doctor and, on his recommendation, went on a lower dose that reduced these symptoms and kept me away from the pain killers I had been using.  I was able to function (and I really needed to function, with the pandemic lockdowns and my little son’s online school and assignments to be dealt with.  My husband was, and since, has been busy making Covid and other vaccines - he was in his lab right through this period).

A few months later I noticed something startling.  (My husband said that he had started noticing changes much earlier on- he felt I had lost my lightness of spirit- but he thought it might just be a small change with the medication and was probably reversible).  I began to get sudden panic attacks for no reason.  Fortunately, I connected it to the medicine (and when I read the list of possible side effects, this was one of the innumerable side effects listed as affecting a miniscule number of people).  I got in touch with another doctor, who knew me and who I trusted, and his words were, “Get off the medicine immediately.”

I did just that, but the panic didn’t subside.  It went on – a fierce churning in my abdomen and a terrible cloud of worry and gloom covering my mind, day, and night.  I couldn’t enjoy even a single moment.  I couldn’t sleep.  I somehow had to still stay functional, to deal with my family life and also, unfortunately, the very large tangle of paperwork and other responsibilities that my father’s death had left on my shoulders.  (My father passed away just at the onset of the pandemic quite suddenly, even before I had time to say goodbye to him, and this had also left me emotionally weak).  It all seemed overwhelming.  

Normally I would have dealt with everything one step at a time, but I was not functioning like my old self and, worse still, I didn’t know if I would get better.  When I asked people, there seemed to be no answer other than, “Hopefully, the effects of the medicine will pass.”

Quite serendipitously, the day I went off the medicine was the day I was to meet an Ayurvedic doctor.  I had set up the appointment some weeks ago, hoping to ease off the allopathic medicine.  When I went, I gave him my medical history.  He noted it down but said he just wanted to balance my elements from within and then gradually get me off all forms of medicine.  He didn’t mention the migraines, the panic or anything.  

I had not much hope but since I started the medicine, my migraines are very much under control.  So, I am keeping my fingers crossed that I don’t get any other kinds of side effects with this medicine, though the doctor has told me that it is quite a mild kind of medication that he has given.

This blog is not about my troubled times.  It is really about how I pulled myself through all this and how love and faith are really what can guide us in times of trouble.  

I made an effort to listen to my inner voice which seemed shaky and weak, but which pointed me in a certain direction.  I learnt that the direction which makes me feel better from inside is always the direction to take, no matter what anyone says.  I learnt not to ignore those little bits of contentment or peace which came unbidden.  And that peace leads to a trickle of joy sometimes, which may be easily forgotten.  But then another trickle of joy comes along and slowly, very slowly, I realized that there are many tiny trickles of joy to be found in my world.

People helped a lot too; I was lucky enough to find the right kind of people.  Too much talking does not help.  Some people are embarrassed or don’t seem to want to hear about your misfortunes.  Some give weird and wild advice which just unsettles you even more.  Some will just shrug it off or say, “Snap out of it,” which is exactly what you want to do but don’t know how to.

I was very fortunate that my husband stood firmly beside me at every step.  I woke him up a million times at night, called him endlessly at all hours while he was in lab and just repeated the same thing over and over, “I don’t feel good.  I want to be back to what I was.”

He always heard me out, always encouraged me, always stood firm in his belief that I was gradually getting better, and everything would be fine.

My sister-in-law Tanu supplied me with virtual hugs and physical lavender sachets, both of which I clung to at night.  Another sister-in-law, Kaveri, provided kind words over the phone.  My friend Nora who is a Five Element acupuncturist, sent me diagrams of points that I could press or needle to get back into equilibrium.

My music teacher, Soumitro, served as a great source of strength and focused my energy in the direction of music, which I found very therapeutic.  Though I began learning music less than a year ago (to help my son practice), never having learnt it before, I found myself drawn greatly to the sounds and notes that were introduced to me.  My head felt better, my mind felt soothed and I discovered that I enjoyed singing.  I called my teacher many times when I was low, and he always responded positively and joyfully, talking me through my troubles with examples of his views on how to feel good about life and reminding me that all was well in my world.  He introduced me to peaceful and happy ragas that I could hear and sometimes hum or just replay in my mind.  From being a music teacher, he moved onto being a friend to my son and myself.

And so, gradually, began the shift to positivity.  I began ignoring the pangs and they gradually receded.  I did not know how to actually feel happy again but my husband encouraged me to take time to do the things I had always enjoyed.  Swimming, cooking and music filled the hours when my son went back to physical school.  I stopped dwelling on all the paperwork that was piled up related to my father’s work.  I timidly began asking people for advice or help when I found there were financial and other tasks beyond me, and I discovered how much goodwill there was for me.  I may not have achieved any high-flying targets in recent years, but I care about people and people seem to remember and appreciate it.  I sensed that and it made me feel grateful.  This is how, gradually, the transition occurred.  

Initially, in the swimming pool, my mind would be full of troubled thoughts, “I’m just wasting my time here when I should be doing bank work.”  Now I enjoy the tranquility of the pool, the pale turquoise water with the glimmering sun beans slanting through.  I enjoy the feel of the water and the way my body feels at the end of the swim.  I enjoy the warm shower I take after that.

Earlier I would quake at the thought of making anything more complicated than rice, dal and a curry.  Now I’m back to khow suey, stir fried crabs, homemade pizza and more.  

Earlier, a walk outside would just be a short respite before I returned to my old worries.  Now, I feel the breeze, smell the damp earth, reach out to the ancient trees and the young, springy grass that grows alongside.  I thank Nature for showing me all its beauty each time I step outside.  

I make it a point now to stay in touch with people I care about.  Earlier I wondered what I could say to them as nothing much was happening in my life.  Now I realize it doesn’t matter.  Somehow, we connect, words flow, and people appreciate my gesture of reaching out to them.

Not that I no longer sense those clouds gathering.  They do come once in a while, but they don’t stay for long.  I try to remember the peaceful or happy moments of my days and remind myself that each day will be filled with some of these special times, which will stretch out for longer and longer periods.  And I will get back to my yoga and my writing soon.  

I no longer take natural beauty, bursts of joy, periods of peace and different forms of love or compassion for granted.  Each such moment has become very special for me- a gift to be grateful for and to be cherished.  I find that acknowledging and appreciating each beautiful moment inevitably leads to other moments of great positivity.

And as for banks and other impersonal institutions that I need to keep dealing with?  They can all wait.  My happiness can’t.

My Cupboard Complains

 It all began with the packers.  Everything that goes wrong in our house, if not blamed on the monkeys, is always blamed on the packers.  But it WAS their fault.  For mixing things up in big boxes, leaving them unlabeled and strewn all over the house.  Boxes that were too big and heavy for me to move, boxes that were too jumbled up for me to guess what lay within each.  There is more order in volcanic eruptions than in my unpacked boxes.

"It's okay,"says my husband.  "We're not here to win a prize for neat and tidy homes."  (This means, "I'm not going to waste my time clearing up this mess when I can work on a Coronavirus vaccine."). Fair enough.  And, usually, it's okay.  The inherent lack of order combined with the disorder my son brings each day into our house is something we live cheerfully with. (Garbage is not garbage, according to my son.  It is a thing of wondrous possibilities, which he must explore).

We moved in just before the Coronavirus did.  At a busy time, a few days before Diwali.  "Don't worry about unpacking, immediately" said my husband (which meant, "I have to go to Africa on Diwali.  We'll deal with things when I return.").  And so I just skimmed the surface of what lay in the boxes and put them away.  Of course certain emergencies required immediate action (like my husband realising a few hours before his flight that he had no sweater.  Finally, after much upheaval, we located one (and only one) sweater -the rest were packed in a completely different box in the garage.

It has now been almost two years since we moved.  Gradually I have unpacked, leaving the lowest priority and most voluinous items for the end.  These were undoubtedly my clothes.  Living in three pairs of clothes for a year brought a certain sense of freedom.  No choices to be made.  No accessories to choose.  Just wear, wash and repeat the process.  This served me well through the first pandemic year.  Until my clothes developed holes that grew larger and larger.

It was then that I unpacked and put away the rest of my clothes.  My cupboard is old and exceedingly beautiful.  It has spotless glass and coloured tiles on it and is made of ancient, gleaming teak.  But its design is such that I cannot see half the contents because the doors do not open completely.  To access these, I have to pull everything our, sift through the clothes and push everything back again.  Not practical but I love my cupboard much too much to change this.  And my cupboard (when it is not in one of its moods, loves me immensely too).

So I carefully put away my things but had no use for most of them because life was still moving at maximum simplicity scale.  The priority was waking up early, going outdoors to play, rushing back, cooking breakfast, checking internet connections, making sure we were in time for the zoom calls, cooking the next meal and repeating this process over and over.

It was finally only today that I gathered the energy to wear a saree.  I got my first saree when I was sixteen and I have loved wearing them ever since.  In my parents' house I was oblivious as to the demands of sarees- they demand to be hand washed, starched, sun-dried, carefully ironed and put away in the right place, next to the matching blouses and petticoats.  It is understandable that I have not been able to summon the energy to wear a saree for the last two years.

But today things were different.  Today I was determined to wear one.  And so I went confidently to the cupboard and pulled out my favourite colour- off white.  I love all shades of white and this white and blue one was what I would wear today.

But life had Other Plans.  The saree was perfect, but - no blouse!  I searched high and low and finally located the blouses tucked away in a corner, camouflaged next to a bunch of dupattas.  Whew!  But the problem was far from solved.  My cupboard, which once overflowed with white petticoats suddenly shook its head when I asked it to produce just one.  "Not possible," it said with a little sigh.  "You didn't put them in here."

Didn't put them in here!  I was aghast.  Where HAD I put them?

"Well maybe you did.  But - ahem- you have so many white clothes and they look all the same folded up that I can't tell," my ancient cupboard groaned.  "Here- why don't you take this nice- grey one."

Grey!  I shuddered.  It is a colour I don't like.  "Okay, how about- bright yellow, dark mustard, navy blue.."

I shook my head.  "Oh!  You're so hard to please," creaked my cupboard.  "Well, take this- it's a very old green one."

Green- I rummaged around.  Yes, I had a saree.  I had a blouse (did it fit?- whew! yes it did..).  Okay I could manage that.  "Thank you," I whispered to the cupboard.  "Don't mention it- ever again," it sighed.  I wondered.  Had I been too demanding?

Finally, after I got into my saree, I felt it had all been worth it.  Yes, there are mounds of clothes scattered about which have to be rearranged and put back.  Yes, I need to find those white petticoats asap.  Yes, I will have to wash this saree (but I am not going to think that far ahead).  Today, I am going to enjoy wearing my green saree with this cheerful red blouse.  A small triumph of perseverance in the face of complete clothes-finding chaos.  Even my cupboard approves of that.